


Brown-eyed Blues (5/5)

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-03
Updated: 2002-02-03
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: An odd and quirky romance that starts with a car accident and ends with a home invasion.





	Brown-eyed Blues (5/5)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Brown-eyed Blues (5/5)

## Brown-eyed Blues (5/5)

#### by Ganymede

Title: Brown-eyed Blues (5/5)  
Author: Ganymede  
Feedback to:   
Author's Website:   
Status: Complete  
Category: Unclassified  
Pairing (Primary): Skinner/Krycek  
Pairing(s) (Secondary): Mulder/Krycek  
Crossover Fandom (if any):   
Crossover Info (if any):   
Other Pairing Info:   
Rating: NC-17  
Spoilers: Assume everything up to Season Eight (I'm living in denial, boys and girls)  
Permission to Archive:   
Series or Sequel/Prequel:   
Notes: Chapter 1- Battered and Bruised, and Chapter 5 -Breaking and Entering have already been posted and archived various places. In my usual style, I wrote the last chapter first, then the first chapter, then the rest about three months later.  
Warnings:   
Disclaimer: Krycek, Skinner, Mulder, and Scully belong to CC and 1013 productions. Jarod belongs to TNT. The Dalai Lama belongs to the world.  
Summary: An odd and quirky romance that starts with a car accident and ends with a home invasion.

* * *

Chapter 5 - Breaking and Entering 

It's been a long time  
//since the rock-n-roll//  
since the last time I was on this street. 

Nine weeks, two days, fourteen hours, and a few odd minutes. 

Three blocks away. 

Two blocks away. 

One block away. 

There it is. 

Walking silently, drifting in and out of the shadows - my trainers would be so proud of me. That is, if I hadn't killed them all. I hate it when that happens. It makes it all but impossible to get a good employment reference that way. My resume sucks. 

It looks exactly the same. Big brick and wood box with windows. A very expensive brick and wood box with windows. 

Let's see what else is the same. Pattern recognition is a very valuable skill in my profession. Hmm..yup. Just as I thought. Downstairs neighbors still forget to lock their windows at night. Might as well send out a f*cking engraved invitation. And in I go, into the kitchen, through the living room, into the foyer, unlock the deadbolt, and out the front door before anyone wakes up. 

In the hallway, past the doorman, past security. Now I just have to look like I blend in. Hard to do - the last place I blended in was a Tunisian prison. That or a circus sideshow. 

No elevator. Stairs. In the elevator, people feel compelled to talk to you. Can't have that. Garroting them would just draw attention to myself, and make a squishy mess on the carpet. That and the city has recently increased its garbage disposal fee. It's hard for an honest independent contractor like myself to make ends meet. 

Up one flight. Take a left. Down two doors. Keep walking past the front door, around the corner. 

Voila. Kitchen door. Opens to the common trash room. Locked. Cheap-ass lock. He really should know better. Not worth the trouble of pulling out the kit - where'd I put that credit card? Pop, slide, shimmy.and there it is. Open. I have no idea how that happened, officer. I was just walking by, and the door just popped open on its own. 

Deep breath. Senses peeled. Dick hard. 

Smells like him. 

Smells like Thai food, freshly washed floors, his cologne. My gut is winding tighter and tighter. The air is too thin here. 

Get inside, you f*cking moron, before some middle-aged hausfrau notices you loitering in the hallway 

Inside. 

Heartbeat staccato in my ears. Sig in my hand. Feet silently navigating the soft carpeting. Eyes catching on every unidentified shadow, every mysterious shape in the dark. 

Freeze. 

Listen. 

What the f*ck is that? 

Snoring? 

Unidentified lump on top of another oblong lump in the middle of the room. The oblong lump bears a striking similarity to a couch. The brunette lump on top bears a striking similarity to. 

Mulder. 

My exasperated exhale sounds loud in the blanketing silence. What the hell are you doing here, Fox? Don't you have an apartment? A child? Scully? Go home. I don't want to deal with you tonight. I have things to do, people to terrorize, bigger fish to fry. You'll just be in my way. Not like you haven't turned that into a valuable career skill - being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Your insurance company is at the point of putting a contract out on you. 

I stand for a long time in the silvery darkness, glaring at him. 

Once upon a time, as all good stories start. 

Once, it would have made a difference. 

Once. 

By the time you finally said the words, it was too late. 

I didn't want to hear them from you. 

I wanted to hear them from him. 

And that, as they say, is how the story goes. 

Or went. 

Instead, I went. 

And came back. 

And left again. 

Maybe tonight I'll only stay long enough to bury a couple of bullets in the back of someone's head. Maybe I'll stay for the weekend. 

The longest time was six weeks. Not my fault. Fractured skull, jaw wired shut, shattered forearm, damaged larynx, five broken ribs. So many stitches in my abdomen and legs I looked like a patchwork quilt. Double vision. Couldn't talk. Couldn't feed myself. Couldn't go to the bathroom without help. 

Help. 

They did. 

He did. 

I've given up trying to understand. All it gets me is a headache this big, and it's got Excedrin written all over it. 

Skinner and Mulder. Don't ask, don't tell, doesn't make any sense. 

And then there's me, on a crazy comet elliptical orbit through their lives. Oh, and you can't forget about Scully. And the baby. Last time I saw William, I told her he was obviously the latest reincarnation of the Dalai Lama.She didn't see the humor in it. 

Skinner's not here. I'd know if he was. 

I'd be able to feel it. 

Time to go. 

I turn to sneak out the same way I entered. Disappear back into the sewer, where I came from. Moonlight and darkness start coalescing in the space between the couch and the entertainment center, taking form, creating mass. Moving. 

It's alive. 

It's Skinner. 

F*ck. 

* * *

F*ck. 

Huge. Broad shoulders, big arms, muscular legs, tall. Strong. Found that out the hard way. Several times. Fights dirty, too. Somehow, I always end up with my face buried in the carpet, wrist twisted behind my back until it screams for Amnesty International. 

Just standing there, watching me, tiny amount of ambient light glinting off his glasses, rendering his eyes white disks. Unreadable. Service revolver in one hand, pointed at me. Pilsner bottle in the other. 

F*ck. 

I'm dead. 

"Put your gun down, Krycek." 

He always starts out with Krycek. Takes him a couple of hours to get to Alex. Sometimes days. When I stay that long. 

Only once did I stick around long enough to get to Cat. 

I could try to shoot him, but by the time I got my gun into firing position, he'd have already squeezed off a wounding shot. Then Mulder, the Boy Wonder, would wake up, and we'd have a full-blown melee on our hands. Not that those can't be enjoyable, when I'm in the right mood. It's just not often that I'm in the mood for lacerations and blood loss. 

It's not f*cking fair! 

Head shaking, disgusted with myself. I'm a professional, for chr*st's sake. I do this for a living. I shoot more people before 9 am than most people do all day. And I always, inevitably lose my gun to this man, this rank amateur. Why do I always lose? 

I think about it for a minute. Another minute. Then, slowly, I bend over and put the gun down on the coffee table. Metal on glass makes more noise than I thought, and two sets of eyes immediately glue to the sleeping form on the couch. Nope. Still snoring. Boy Wonder could sleep through an alien invasion. I think he did back in 1998. 

"Now the other one." Low voice sizzling up my spine. 

"I don't have another one." Trying for innocent and missing by at least a light year. 

"Bullsh*t, Krycek. Put the other gun down on the table." 

One of these days, my smart mouth is going to get me killed. Big smile, wide enough for him to see in the gloom. "And what if I refuse?" 

A shrug, barely perceptible movement of the mountain ranges. "Then I make you bleed. Your choice. Either way, you lose the gun." 

That voice always goes straight for my gut, except when it goes lower. When I was injured, he would spend hours sitting by my bed and talking to me. I couldn't talk back - my throat was seriously screwed up and my jaw wired shut - and I think it was the first time he had had a silent captive audience in years. He talked about his family, his life before the FBI, what he did in the war, his opinion of the baseball strike. He would also read to me. Sometimes it was the Post, sometimes a biography of a famous Civil War general, sometimes the latest Spenser novel. His voice was my lifeline, as I was breaking apart inside and gluing myself back together in the silence and the pain. 

Mulder was...different. When it was Mulder's turn to do convalescent care, he didn't talk to me much. I think my lack of conversational ability bugged him. He preferred partners who were a bit, shall we say, mouthier. Like Scully. We would spend most of our time in front of the TV, usually with my head resting in his lap, him petting me like a kitten. Panther, actually. Boy Wonder had this insatiable appetite for human contact. Always touching, always stroking, cuddling, you name it. Made me wonder when was the last time someone touched him when they weren't in the sack. Somehow, when Skinner would give me a shower, he would end up reasonably dry after the entire affair, in spite of my cast. Not Mulder. After the first time, he just took his clothes off and hopped under the spray with me. 

I'm a guy. I'm not a natural cuddler. Ain't in my nature to be. What I am is a quick study. Give the Boy Wonder what he wants, and he's amazingly easy to live with. If all he wants is some physical affection, I'm sure as sh*t not going to say no. 

Did I f*ck them? Hell, yes. Sometimes one or the other, sometimes both. Skinner, for all his words, never talked about it, never mentioned it in daylight. Just big hands in the dark, surprisingly gentle, playing with me like the bandaged rag doll I was, carefully manhandling me without doing more damage, giving me what he wanted to give, taking what he wanted to take. Never harsh, never cruel, just...certain. Force of nature. Apparently, I was better for chasing away his nightmares than two fingers of scotch. If I could patent my dick, I'd make a fortune. 

Not Mulder. With him, it just...slid. From stroking my back while he changed the bandages, to showering, to having his cock up my ass while we spooned on the couch, watching one of his porn videos. Then there were Saturday nights. 

They were both there every single Saturday night. 

No matter where they spent the week, they were in the condo for dinner. 

After dinner, after shower, after bandaging, they'd put me in the middle of Skinner's huge bed, and follow me under the covers. One on each side. They loved ganging up on me, two FBI agents versus one barely ambulatory cripple who couldn't talk above a whisper and could hardly move without pain. Egging each other on, taunting, teasing, daring each other to go one step further, milk one more reaction out of my battered body. After they were through wringing me out, they would pour me back into my skin, recheck the bandages, and Skinner would carry me out to the couch like a blushing maiden. 

That couch. 

The couch Boy Wonder was sleeping on right now. 

Flashing Skinner my best $50 hooker leer. "Maybe I like it when you make me bleed." 

My dick hard as a metal bar. The smell of this place enough to do that to me. All I have to do is breathe around him. 

Shaking his head. "Not tonight. Not this week. I have other things in mind for you." 

Not this week? What's up with that? I thought beating the crap out of me then f*cking me into the carpet was his favorite recreational activity. I'm hurt. Rejected. Devastated, even. The magic is gone, Walter. 

My confused look must have traveled well through the dark. "Put your gun down. Or don't. I don't care at this point." 

Turning on his heel - turning his back on me while I'm still armed! - and walking away. 

My poor impulse control is gonna get me killed one of these days. I'm two steps behind him, closing fast. Reaching out to touch him, grab his arm, slow him down. "Skinner, what the f*ck is your..." 

Body-slammed up against the wall. 6.2 on the Richter scale. I wouldn't be surprised if the idiots downstairs lost a few of their framed Ansel Adams posters. Ears ringing, head spinning. My one good arm pinned high over my head by steel gripping fingers on my wrist, other hand grabbing where my stump meets the prosthetic, hip against pelvis holding me in place. I'm gonna have some major bruises in the morning. 

"Krycek, do you have any idea what this week is? Do you have any clue why Mulder is sleeping on the couch?" 

I shake my head. Bad idea. The room tilts at a 45 degree angle and refuses to shift back to a proper alignment. 

"Earlier this week, Alex, was exactly two years from the day you were dumped at the clinic, broken, barely alive, carrying a CD-ROM with my name on it." 

Sh*t. Has it been that long? Has it only been two years? He remembers the exact date. They both do. F*ck. 

"Since then, you've been disappearing and reappearing in my life at random intervals. You break in, stay for an hour, an afternoon, a day, and then you vanish again when my back is turned. The only way I can be sure you'll still be here when I get out of the shower is to cuff you to the bed before I go." 

Involuntary sh*t-eating grin. One time I wasn't quiet or quick enough sliding out the door, and he caught me. I spent the rest of the weekend chained to the headboard, or the shower stall, or the leg of the couch. Forty-eight hours of sex, and talking, and take-out food. He didn't let me go until he left for work Monday morning. 

"I don't want to play that game any more, Alex. Neither does Mulder. I don't want to spend my time between visits wondering if you're alive or dead. I don't want to have to frisk you for weapons when you do show up. I don't want you running away before the sheets are cold." 

"Sh*t, Skinner. I'm not a boy scout. You know what I am, what I do for a living. What do you want from me?" 

"I want a phone number. I want you here more often than every two and a half months. I want to hear from you occasionally when you aren't in town." Voice little more than a whisper, forehead pressing against mine. "I want you in my life, Alex. If that's not what you want, then leave now. And don't come back." 

Eyes closed, pinned to the wall, feeling his breath tickling my chin, I do the only thing a reasonable man can do when faced with temptation like this. I give in. Just a little arch of the neck, and his lips are touching mine. My stump is released from its shackles, and then the grip of steel is on the back of my neck, holding me still while he slowly, thoroughly, kisses me. That man can kiss like a demon. I pour every bit of emotion I have into that kiss, into that heartbeat I can feel through his skin. 

I don't know what I am anymore, but whatever it is, I am his. 

The end. 

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Ganymede 


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